


une vie moins ordinaire 3: mercredi et jeudi

by AuKestrel



Series: Sur une journée donnée (On any given day) [4]
Category: Buried On Sunday (1992), My Life as a Dog (TV)
Genre: M/M, POV Alternating, Slash
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-12-04
Updated: 2016-12-04
Packaged: 2018-08-30 22:15:03
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 9
Words: 16,252
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8551222
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AuKestrel/pseuds/AuKestrel
Summary: If you're coming into this cold, you really do have to go read the beginning parts, because this literally picks up from the end of the last chapter. The series can be found here: Sur une journée donnée.I realised I hadn't had much more to do on this part so I don't know why I hadn't posted it. I'll be fixing it up and posting it. The chapter with the rape/non-con will be noted. Why, yes; Noelle is involved, now that you mention it.





	1. mercredi: matin (j’ai beaucoup de chance)

**Author's Note:**

> If you're coming into this cold, you really do have to go read the beginning parts, because this literally picks up from the end of the last chapter. The series can be found here: [Sur une journée donnée](http://archiveofourown.org/series/12835%22).
> 
> I realised I hadn't had much more to do on this part so I don't know why I hadn't posted it. I'll be fixing it up and posting it. The chapter with the rape/non-con will be noted. Why, yes; Noelle is involved, now that you mention it.

The smell of bacon wakes him almost before the buzzer; and by the time he returns to the bedroom with the cart (having co-opted it quite effectively from the waiter), Johnny’s also beginning to stir. Gus watches him carefully, stretching and blinking; but there are no shadows in his eyes, no restraint in his smile.

A moral dilemma, delivered on a silver, or at least a stainless steel, platter: how much should he tell Johnny? Should he tell Johnny at all?

From what he knows of Johnny, he’ll feel guilty about it, even distressed, that he _bothered_ Gus, yet he doesn’t seem to know, or at least remember, what he’s dreaming.

Cornelius would argue that Johnny had an absolute right to know, no matter how it affects Johnny-and-Gus; and, not for the first time, Gus misses Cornelius deeply, an ache in his heart that’s never gone and never will be, because one of the best things about Cornelius was that they could disagree on every salient point but still discuss anything, and everything, until dawn.

Gus would have temporized, and Cornelius would have called him on it, but Gus does so now, falling back on his role of shepherd: not telling Johnny _now_ doesn’t mean he won’t tell Johnny in the future; and (as said shepherd) he could use more information from Johnny that Johnny will, he’s sure, share more openly if he doesn’t think he’s “bothering” Gus.

Cornelius was more of an absolutist (in many, many respects) than Gus ever will  be, and sometimes Gus thinks he wouldn’t be as absolutist as he is if he’d been raised by _any_ one else, even Maida Swinimer (who wouldn’t appreciate _that_ idea, seeing as she’s only got ten-some years on him).

He resorts to Zeda, wishing he could in a more literal way, but these decisions always have to be made on the fly (which is sort of the _point_ , old son); at any rate, Zeda would ask whom (careful to stress that grammatical point) he’s harming.

Gus wonders briefly if he should bring Johnny’s faith into the mix and then decides that Zeda would take that as a digression; he suspects that Zeda and Johnny share a basic belief that has always been alien to Gus, despite his calling, and that neither of them would regard that as having anything to do with, well… anything.

In the short run, Johnny’s not being harmed if Gus doesn’t tell him now; in the long run, yes, he would be. Zeda wants “short” to be defined, well, yes, and doesn’t she always? “Thirty days,” he says under his breath, and she snorts: the world was created in seven.

They compromise on a fortnight: Zeda agrees, surprisingly, that if the real goal is helping Johnny there’s more to be understood if he’s not self-conscious about actually _being_ helped.

And it’s all entirely relativistic and rationalized to within an inch of Gus’ life; and Johnny’s smiling at him, saying something about “…bacon.”

“I’m starving,” Gus says, “and I thought you would be too.”

Johnny hasn’t blushed, at least not like that, in, oh, twenty-four hours; but he grins anyway and so does Gus, so Gus abandons the cart temporarily to draw Johnny to his feet, into his arms, to kiss Johnny’s neck, collarbone, chin, mouth, to feel Johnny’s hands on his ass, to feel Johnny pressed up against him, kissing him back without restraint.

“God, that was fabulous,” he whispers, and Johnny shudders against him, and Gus bites his chin just to hear Johnny gasp. “ _You’re_ fabulous… I hope you’re not sore. Too sore.”

“’m fine,” Johnny murmurs, his voice a low husky buzz against Gus’ neck, his cock a hard warm length against Gus’. “Told you… couldn’t believe…”

“I was – coffee –”

“You and coffee,” Johnny says against his throat. “Killer combo, two of my favourite things.” He’s speaking so rapidly, so softly, Gus almost can’t understand him. “But _this_ ‘s even better,” and he’s palming the head of Gus’ cock, then wrapping his fingers around both of them, stroking slow and then fast. “Just – yeah, just like that, the way you sound when I – yeah, oh yeah,” and his hand’s moving faster, grasping harder, just, _just_ the way Gus likes it; and it was a lost cause from the start so Gus gives in, lets Johnny push him down onto the bed, onto his back, lets Johnny straddle him, rub him, push them together even more while he kisses Gus’ belly, licks Gus’ chest, neck… and if Johnny’s talking to Gus about how hot Gus is, Gus is responding in kind, more than kind, more than fantastic, even: and Johnny keeps it up, keeps watching Gus, telling Gus he wants to see him come _every_ where.

Gus holds off as long as he can, letting it build, and build again, letting his body luxuriate in the feel of Johnny over him, holding him down, the feel of Johnny’s hand working his cock, the rush, the wonder, the _explosion_ when Johnny throws his head back and pushes his cock up against Gus’, moaning Gus’ name and stripping Gus’ cock hard and fast.

And Gus could stand to come all over again when he opens his eyes to see Johnny slathering Gus’ come all over his own cock. He bats Johnny’s hand aside and pushes Johnny over, gets his mouth on Johnny’s cock before Johnny can even gasp, his sticky hand in Gus’ hair now and the two of them smelling of sex and man and more sex, so heady the room is spinning and so is Gus: salt and sea and their sex together on his tongue when Johnny arches his back and lets go, almost frozen in place while his cock, hard and thick, jerks, then spills down Gus’ throat.

And he keeps sucking, licking, feeling Johnny go soft in his mouth while Johnny catches his breath and pets his head: some day – maybe today, maybe tomorrow – Gus is going to keep sucking until Johnny comes _again_ , and he wonders how the hell Johnny made it to a virginal nineteen. Gimli must be a lot smaller than Solomon Gundy, or the summer people are a lot stupider, or both, because Gus would have lost his sooner if it hadn’t been for a bad summer, weather-wise.

“Good, so good,” Johnny’s whispering, still petting him, “God, so good…”

And because Gus wants to know, and because Gus is ridiculously self-satisfied, and because Johnny’s cock is soft and spent and just an inch away from Gus’ nose, Gus raises his head and asks: “How the _hell_ did you make it to nineteen?”

Johnny blushes _scarlet_ , practically from his _cock_ , and starts to laugh, and Gus does too, crawling up Johnny’s body to pull him into a tight, warm embrace while Johnny mutters something about just not _knowing_.

“I’d have tripped you and beaten you to the ground,” Gus whispers, pulling back to watch Johnny blush again. “At least as soon as I figured out what a hard-on was _for_.”

“I wish you _had_ ,” Johnny whispers back. “God… yeah. Did you – was it – was it with a girl?”

“Yeah,” Gus says, tracing Johnny’s mouth with his thumb. “But only because it wasn’t you.” He can see the pulse in Johnny’s throat, fluttering, strong enough that he can see it but so delicate, under his skin, that it’s like a moth’s wings. “Why did you wait so long?”

“God,” Johnny says, laughing nervously. “I… uh…”

“Were they all _blind_?” Gus says, consciously and deliberately exaggerating to make Johnny relax, to make Johnny smile.

“It didn’t really matter,” Johnny says, still flushed, even shy; but he keeps talking. “It… uh, it wasn’t what I expected.”

“First times rarely are,” Gus says, leaning in to kiss the corner of Johnny’s eye. “Except, of course, for ours.”

“She was a – she was a friend of my, uh, roommate’s girlfriend, in, uh – in New Bedford–”

A pity fuck, to boot, although Gus is sure Johnny’s roommate didn’t see it that way, at least (and thank God) – “and I had no clue,” and it’s not funny but Johnny’s still laughing. “I just – I watched him and hoped I wouldn’t, uh… anyway, what about you?”

What about _everything_? Gus wants to say, and can’t: “She was one of the summer people but I knew her, more or less; and we just sort of tried it out together.”

“Was it good?” Johnny asks, still shy, but entirely honest too; and Gus can’t believe his openness, his earnestness.

“It was awkward,” he says, choosing his words carefully. “And a little scary, and even a little painful, but it was good, yeah.” So good that Gus hadn’t stopped for years on end, in fact; but Johnny’s looking surprised, even awed, clearly having bought into the myth that everyone _else_ knew, or knows, what they’re doing the first time. “I’m surprised the summer people in Gimli didn’t go after you – at least the girls.”

“They did,” Johnny says, an easy grin lighting his eyes. “I even had a girlfriend in Grade 7, but she ditched me for an older guy. And once Margret Bjarnasdottir – well, uh, second base,” and he’s suddenly, and enchantingly, blushing again. “Uh – is this okay?”

“It’s okay, I promise if I ever meet Margret I’ll play dumb,” and Gus’ wink just makes Johnny flush all over again, while Gus thinks that at least not everyone in Gimli was blind.

“She’s married with three kids,” Johnny says, his smile open and unguarded. “I don’t think she even remembers.”

“Oh, she remembers,” Gus says, his throat suddenly tight. “She remembers, trust me.”

And Johnny shakes his head at that but Gus is both pleased and touched to see the wheels turning in Johnny’s head for at least a few seconds at the thought; and they ought to eat breakfast but Johnny’s being so forthcoming (for Johnny) that he’s reluctant to change the subject.

“And how did you meet Zoë?” he asks, as offhandedly as he can, trying not to take Johnny by surprise but hoping all the same that Johnny doesn’t shut him down. “Another roommate?”

Johnny’s so trusting he almost feels a pang: “No, that was after the knees, after I came back. I sort of knew her, she came up with some summer people a few times, and, uh, one of my cousins fixed us up, said I needed a distraction.”

“And was she?” Gus asks, not because he cares but to keep Johnny talking.

“Yeah,” Johnny says, his eyes going soft and his mouth softer still; and Gus is irrationally angry, with himself for being jealous, and with Johnny for still fucking _caring_ – “she – we seemed to, uh, to want the same things. Liked the same things. She was – she wasn’t hard to talk to, either, didn’t make you guess what she wanted…”

No, not _then_ , Gus wants to say; but he doesn’t, just rubs his hand through Johnny’s hair.

“I was still – I mean, I still didn’t know much, and the knees and all but she was pretty patient and – and she was, uh, on the Pill, and that part – that was _amazing_ ,” and Johnny’s eyes reflect the wonder he must have felt inside that tight heat: Gus’ own gut leaps, a visceral response, memories of the way it felt with Marthe; and he remembers, now, suddenly, Johnny saying how he hated condoms last night.

But Zoë’d made him use them later: not as if she needed another strike, but there it is, not much Gus can do about that.

“It kind of sucked,” and Johnny’s even _laughing_ , “when we had to, uh, use rubbers again because we were getting ready to try… they said she had to be off the Pill for a year.”

All right, whatever; and Gus is uneasily aware that he’s becoming (yeah, right, only _just_ now) irrational. He knows next to nothing about any of it, and Zoë might just have been a mostly-good woman without the sense to appreciate Johnny.

Or not.

After all, Gus has already nailed it twice now, and he’s  _not_ talking about Johnny’s ass (three, if anyone’s counting): Zoë was indeed Johnny’s only serious long-term relationship; and, evidently, one _can_ count the number of Johnny’s actual sexual partners on the fingers of one hand and have enough left over to open another beer.

And Johnny’s smile is fading: “Jesus, I’m sorry, Gus, I didn’t mean–”

“I–” well, ‘want’ isn’t exactly what he means, so Gus settles for the truth: “–need to know, Johnny. Don’t apologise.” He’s certain that Zeda could pull a metaphor out of this in relation to eavesdroppers never hearing any good of themselves; but he does need to know, and it’s his own fault that he doesn’t want to actually hear it. So Gus finds a smile from somewhere: “I was pretty responsible with condoms too, until I spent a couple of weeks helping out on a farm in France. I still remember it.”

“Yeah…” He still looks self-conscious: Gus runs a hand through Johnny’s hair again and smiles slowly and deliberately.

“It was amazing,” he says quietly, intimately; and Johnny leans in slowly, as if he’s unaware he’s even moving, to listen.


	2. Chapter 2

And it wasn’t that Johnny wanted, you know, dirty stories or something, but it doesn’t sound dirty, not from Gus, anyway: it sounds fun, and sweet, and even kind of… innocent, if that’s the right word.

Gus, doing his own version, he said, of the “Grand Tour” with a Eurailpass and a backpack, worked his way through Europe, helping in vineyards in the fall, skiing in the winter, working his way back across France in the spring.

Johnny wishes he could see that, spring in France, and he says as much; and Gus catches hold of Johnny’s hand and kisses his knuckles and tells him that he would love to show it to Johnny, and he can’t wait to see Canada with him either.

Marthe was young, for a widow: her oldest was seventeen and she had twins who were fourteen, and they were all away at school. Her brother and her nephew helped her with the farm, and she managed; but Gus had shown up in time to help with the spring lambing.

He couldn’t say, even now, what it was about her, but even though she’d been twice his age, when she invited him into her bed, he’d gone willingly. She was nothing like the girls he’d slept with up until then: she was solid and strong and uninhibited, and sometimes he thinks, Gus says with that rich chuckle, sometimes he thinks that if the son hadn’t come home for Easter Gus might still be there.

“No-” Johnny says, reaching up to pull Gus down- “ _no_.”

“No,” Gus agrees after a long, breathless kiss. “Just that I know… how you feel. Felt.”

And it doesn’t seem right to be getting off on this, on Gus talking about Marthe, on Johnny talking about the first time with Zoë, in the back seat, but he feels his stomach tense, his groin tighten: Zoë had been _very_ patient, really, because Johnny came when she straddled him, all their clothes still on; and he came again when she pulled off her panties and slid, wet-warm- _hot_ , back and forth against his cock; and then again when he began to slide into her, because he hadn’t _known_ it could feel like that.

And for a while, really, she hadn’t seemed to mind at _all_ – Johnny’d come fast, and then slow, and she’d come slow and then fast – and Johnny loved it, every second of it. “I wanted to stay inside her forever sometimes,” he whispers, almost forgetting where he is. “Sometimes I did… it seemed like it anyway,” and Gus is looking up at him with those deep blue eyes, and Johnny can’t tell what he’s thinking.

But “I know what you mean,” is all Gus says, his hand on Johnny’s hip, his thumb rubbing smooth circles, and when Johnny feels himself turning red Gus just smiles. And he knows – because Gus told him – that Gus doesn’t like Zoë, or the idea of her, and he flushes again because it’s probably really–

“I don’t play games,” Gus says quietly, looking at Johnny like he’s looking inside him. “I don’t mind hearing about her, Johnny. If I did, I wouldn’t ask. Breakfast?”

And Gus might mean it – he’s been straight with Johnny all along – but Johnny’s pretty sure Gus doesn’t want to hear about Zoë just for the sake of, well, _hearing_ about her.

“Is this about the, uh, the dream?” he asks, because if Gus can be straight with him, he can too. And Gus looks really startled for a minute. “When I was on the couch?” he says patiently, and Gus seems to remember all at once, and actually looks relieved.

“No, not – not that, specifically.” Johnny watches Gus get to his feet and find his robe, tossing the other one to Johnny. “I think I need some coffee. And I need you to teach me how your coffeepot works.”


	3. Chapter 3

And Johnny’s smile is tentative, worry still apparent; and Gus curses his damned conscience even while he’s framing the words to be as non-alarming as possible: “Yeah, Johnny, I want to talk some things over with you, but it can wait until after breakfast.” He could be more convincing, but Johnny’s face lightens anyway; and Gus wonders, just for a moment, if he’s really capable of being worthy of this kind of… blind trust.

Which isn’t fair, either, because Johnny’s clearly able to take care of himself on every front Gus has seen so far _except_ this nightmare/Zoë thing, but Gus still wants…

Well, he does. He wants Johnny in his bed, in his life, on his island for the next thousand years or so, and he wants Johnny to be _happy_ , and…

Hell, he just _wants_.

So he takes: while Johnny’s explaining (and it’s actually two contraptions, Gus realizes tardily: the coffee maker itself and a grinder that looks like a cross between a pepper mill and a minaret) and the filter funnel, and the steam-release whatsis, Gus leans against the counter and watches everything, but mostly Johnny; and when Johnny finally puts it together, on the stove, not making a murmur about how Gus is impeding his range of motion, he takes more, sliding his hands around Johnny’s waist and kissing the back of his neck. And Johnny responds as naturally as breathing, turning in Gus’ arms and pulling Gus to him, sliding his own hands around Gus, up under the robe.

And then Gus takes still more: more time, more liberties, exploring Johnny’s mouth with his tongue and Johnny’s skin with his fingers: the softness under his chin, where his pulse is; the down at the nape of his neck; the knob of his hip bone and the rasp of the fine hair at the top of Johnny’s thigh. The feel of Johnny’s skin under his fingertips is almost as entrancing as the taste of Johnny’s mouth and the touch of Johnny’s nipples, pebbled hard, brushing against Gus’ equally hard nipples not quite randomly; and Gus breathes Johnny in when Johnny gasps every time Gus touches him there.

The smell of coffee is an aphrodisiac now, or might as well be; and he wants to pour it on Johnny’s stomach and lick it off. Johnny snorts and Gus laughs: “Not hot, of course.”

“Or cold,” Johnny says breathlessly, his eyes closing and his head falling back, and Gus thrills at the sight, leaning in to lick Johnny’s neck just to hear Johnny gasp, just to feel Johnny’s fingers dig into his shoulders. “But… ahhh, God… I’d lick it off you too…”

“No doubt in my mind about that,” Gus whispers against Johnny’s pulse, pounding against his lips. “No doubt whatsoever.”

The phone interrupts them: since it’s probably the lawyers for real this time, he (reluctantly) releases Johnny, who just as reluctantly lets him go, then turns to the stove and gasps, making Gus chuckle as he crosses to the phone: “Just your luck I’ll make you break your brand new contraption…”

“No,” Johnny says distractedly. “It’s fine.”

It is the lawyers, well, at least one of them; and Gus takes note that Noelle’s not mentioned at the proposed meeting this afternoon at two. Interesting, again: are they cutting her out of it or is she staying out of it?

But it’s not really important, not when Johnny’s pouring coffee, hesitating over the second cup and looking at Gus; and Gus nods quickly, giving him a thumbs up just to be sure; by the time he’s off the phone, Johnny’s got breakfast laid out, and it’s true: coffee and bacon have an entirely aphrodisiacal and inevitable effect on Gus’ libido now.

“Want me to zap anything?” Johnny asks, turning from the refrigerator with the cream. “I put the toast back in the toaster for a few.”

“Nah,” Gus says, deliberately brushing against Johnny as he leans over to wash his hands. “I’m no gourmand, you know. Salt cod and all.”

“Hákarl,” Johnny says with an absolutely enchanting gurgle that nearly lands the two of them back in bed, or at least on the kitchen floor, at that very minute: the only thing that restrains Gus is the hot coffee in Johnny’s hand, that and the belated realization that he is, in fact, starving.

He’d gone basic: he knew (and feels, again, a thrill at his possession of that knowledge) that scrambled eggs and bacon would be right up Johnny’s alley, so he’d ordered three breakfasts’ worth and extra toast. And Johnny digs in with an appetite that would rival Thurgood’s, at least on a bad day.

Gus does too, enjoying even lukewarm bacon with Johnny’s hot coffee warming him from the inside out; and when he reaches across the table to brush a crumb from the corner of Johnny’s mouth, his heart warms too when Johnny catches Gus’ hand with his own, entwining their fingers and kissing Gus’ thumb where it’s covering Johnny’s.

Gus realizes a few seconds later that he’s just staring (or, at this point, blinking foolishly), but Johnny (again) doesn’t seem to mind, wrapping Gus’ hand in both his own, pulling Gus’ hand up to his lips, his eyes half-closed, as if he’s concentrating on the scent or the taste or maybe just the feel of Gus.

And how many _years_ has it been, now, since Gus felt those words rising unbidden to his lips? Not dutiful, either, certainly not expected, albeit heartfelt; and he’s surprised enough at himself that he pulls away from Johnny without even meaning to.

But Johnny lets go with a half-grin and a duck of his head: not quite embarrassed but willing to admit, if pressed, Gus supposes, to wool-gathering his own self.

“Another meeting this afternoon,” Gus says as casually as he can. “Sorry about that.”

“Hey, no,” Johnny says, his eyes widening. “I know you’re, uh, working, it’s totally not a problem.”

“It is for me,” Gus says, just quietly enough that Johnny has to lean in; when his meaning sinks in, Johnny colours and Gus grins, leaning across the table to take Johnny’s face in both his hands. “Needs must, however…”

“The devil drives a priest?” Johnny murmurs, one hand coming up to cover Gus’, his thumb rubbing, unconsciously, Gus is certain, against the inside of Gus’ wrist; and his smile is even more enchanting than before.

“All my life,” Gus says, trying to ignore his heart pounding in his ears, trying to keep his voice light, casual. “At least if you talk to Bunsy. Or Bunsy’s aunt, who was convinced for years that I was a changeling.”

He’s not prepared for the seriousness, all at once, on Johnny’s face; and he remembers, too late, the nightmares, the trolls, the – the wolves and whatever else it was Johnny was muttering about: hill folk or something. But it’s gone almost as quickly, and Johnny says, “No, you’re too, uh, hot to be a changeling. Half-elf, maybe,” and his quick grin seems as ready as ever.

“Well, yes, when I thrived she was apparently forced to recant,” Gus says, and when did 'careful' and 'casual' become his watchwords? Well, okay, the latter... always. The former? Never.

God, he can’t think straight.

On the other hand, he’s fairly certain Johnny could distract a saint. At least a sensible saint, like Patrick, for instance.

“Yeah, they want to meet around two. I thought we could meet up ourselves at the café – ours,” and it’s not that he expects Johnny to blush, and really, now, it’s not quite a blush so much as a warm tinge to his skin, but it’s a welcome, not to say enticing, sight, “have an early dinner or something.”

“That sounds great,” Johnny says, and there’s no mistaking his enthusiasm. “I’ve got stuff to do anyway, more laundry, stop in at that bookstore, and Hafdís wanted to see a better picture of Eric – oh, hey! I keep forgetting!”

And he’s up and out of the room before Gus can even blink, and back again ten seconds after that with a white paper shopping bag. “I got you this. I’ve got a couple like it and I thought they’d be good for, uh, the maritime kind of climate, because we can’t live without them in Gimli…”

Gus takes the bag in a sort of daze: oh, it’s not as if Bunsy, or even Sil and Thurgood, let his birthday go past without some recognition, and Christmas is downright entertaining some years, but…

Johnny’s watching, and Gus recognizes the diffidence that he wants to banish.

It’s just as well Zoë’s dead because Gus’ immortal soul, probably already beyond salvation, would be permanently lost at this point: one of the commandments is pretty clear on the subject of murder.

Fortunately he doesn’t have to feign delight: the sweater, large and hairy but surprisingly light for all of that, is absolutely gorgeous, and he says so.


	4. Chapter 4

Johnny feels something in his stomach relax that he didn’t even know was tight, and he knows he’s babbling but so what? “It’s really Icelandic,” he says, leaning in to feel the fabric himself as if that can explain it. “Not tourist sweaters… they don’t spin the yarn, so it’s a little scratchy but not a lot scratchy, not like the yarn for the tourists.”

“Oh, of course,” Gus says, as naturally as if Johnny just said that clouds bring rainfall. “They’d be a primitive breed of sheep, wouldn’t they, like the Shetlands and so on.”

“Yeah,” Johnny says, and his head’s spinning, but in a good way, in a “wow, that was good vodka, can I have more please, thank you” way. “Warm enough to wear as a coat a lot of times, at least in Gimli, and I guess for, uh, for fishing too.”

“Absolutely,” Gus says, fingering the rolled neck, stretching it with fingers that show Johnny that Gus does in fact know his way around sweaters. “I love it. I really do. Thank you. I’d love to go with you and meet – Hafdís?”

“Cool,” Johnny says before remembering the meeting. “Oh. But–”

“And I think I need to help with the laundry,” Gus says as if Johnny’d said nothing at all, his grin suddenly wicked. “Since your laundry problem is manifestly my fault.”

“No,  it’s–”

And Johnny has to shut up, suddenly, because he’s being _teased_ , and how long has it been since–

“Indeed,” Gus says, his grin broadening. “Now I’m wishing for snow in June so I could wear this to Hafdís’ shop.”

“Okay,” Johnny says, because there’s really nothing else he _can_ say.

Since breakfast was more or less finished, Johnny offers to clean up while Gus showers; Gus, however, has other ideas.

Since one of those ideas involves Gus up against the wall in the shower while Johnny drives into him, deeper than before and so fucking _hard_ , again, there’s nothing else Johnny can (or would) say, nothing except “Gus,” and maybe, “God,” when he comes hard and deep inside Gus, Gus shuddering against him, Johnny having to hold them both up a few seconds later when Gus’ shudders move all through his body, inside him and around Johnny; and he wraps both arms around Gus’ waist and rests his head on Gus’ back for a few seconds, letting himself come down too.

It _wasn’t_ ever this easy with Zoë, and Johnny doesn’t know why, really. Gus doesn’t seem to care if he comes before or after Johnny, or, sometimes, if he comes at _all_ : that’s part of it, he guesses.

And part of it that Gus just… wants him, and he wants Gus and there’s no games, no pretense; and he wonders if the games, the pretending, he wonders if that’s inevitable or if that’s just a bad habit you fall into or…

…yeah, the other “or” – or if Zoë did love him, and (if he's fair) vice versa.

He feels Gus flex beneath him, and Johnny hugs him once more before letting go, straightening his own back, slipping out of Gus almost like an afterthought, and that sends a shudder straight up his spine, raising all the hairs on his arms despite the warm mist in the shower: it’s not a _déjà vu_ so much as a memory of something he can’t quite grasp.

“God, you’re good,” Gus is murmuring in his ear, moving in close to Johnny, pulling them both back under the water. Johnny murmurs back, not really an agreement so much as a noise, trying to recapture the carefree mood he’d had on waking.

And he mostly succeeds, although he knows he’s being quieter than normal, because Gus looks at him once in a while on the way to Hafdís’ shop; but he’s racking his brain trying to remember that dream, Zoë or Noelle, and what it was that Gus wanted to talk about – the dream, but he said ‘not that specifically’ – and trying _not_ to wonder about Zoë and “long-term” and relationships and “love” because it’s _not_ that, it wasn’t that to begin with, and there’s no reason to worry about milk that hasn’t even been poured into the glass.

Or something.

He’d remembered the photo of Eric at the last minute, a snapshot of Eric and AJ and him from last summer that Auntie Auntie’d taken on the boat. Gus had studied it for a long moment and Johnny knew somehow that Gus was looking for a resemblance. Eric was taller than Max, which was a given – so had Sigrid been – but still a couple inches shy of Johnny, and his face had slimmed down but Johnny knows he’ll always have those cheeks: those came from Max. When his hair’s short, like in the picture, he looks more like Sigrid; when it’s long, the way it was when Johnny saw them off, he looks more like Max now.

Gus had finally handed it back, a twist in his smile Johnny couldn’t figure out, and then he’d backed Johnny against the wall and kissed him – just kissed him – for a long time, slow and careful and sweet and then rushed and restless and wild, until Johnny didn’t know what day it was any more, and didn’t care either, because the only thing that mattered was kissing Gus back in just exactly the same way.

Fortunately for their plans, the maid’s knock brought them to their senses. While Gus went to assure her they’d be out in a few moments, Johnny gathered the dirty laundry – again! – and found his rucksack for it.

Hafdís is thrilled to see him, and just as thrilled to meet his friend, Gus; and Johnny explains (in Icelandic, without even thinking) that he’d bought the sweater for Gus because he’s from Newfoundland. Gus, who’s been following the conversation somehow anyway, agrees that it’s ideal for island weather, and Hafdís presses coffee and cookies on both of them.

Gus drinks the coffee without blinking and Johnny can tell Hafdís is impressed; for himself, he’s in awe, once again, at Gus and at the… well, the ease he has everywhere, for, well, everything. And then Gus buys two more of the mugs with the horses on them, matching the ones Johnny’d bought, and Johnny’s not really sure _what_ to do with that particular little thrill in his heart: Gus wants a reminder too? Something to keep on his island, maybe, besides the sweater?

They spend too much time at the bookstore partly because Gus and the shopkeeper get involved in a lively and earnest discussion about some translation or other. Johnny, browsing in the geography section, listens with half an ear and finds two more books he hasn’t read on polar exploration and one on backyard ice rinks that makes him nostalgic, which is kind of ridiculous: he's not even old enough to be nostalgic about anything.

The nice thing about doing laundry with two people is that Gus, who managed to come away from the bookshop with, he says proudly,  _only_ five books (and he sounds serious, so Johnny doesn’t laugh), can go find lunch; he returns, shortly after Johnny’s got the clothes in the dryers, with Indian food, some kind of chicken that’s red on the outside, and rice that has peas in it, and another container of spinach in a kind of cream sauce, and some bread that makes Johnny’s mouth water.

“Never had Indian food?” Gus asks, his voice not so much quiet as intimate; and Johnny feels a warm flush ride up from his toes. He almost leans in to kiss Gus but remembers where they are just in time.

“No,” Johnny says, whispers, really, because his voice is catching.

“The bread’s called ‘naan’,” Gus says, tearing off another piece. “I love this stuff.”

“It’s awesome,” Johnny agrees, and just manages not to lick out the spinach container when they're finished (he uses a piece of bread instead).

“How much longer for the clothes?” Gus asks then, looking at his watch.

“Uh, fifteen minutes, maybe,” Johnny says, guessing really, but it ought to be close enough. “I can get it if you need to go.”

“No, that ought to give me enough time to suck you off before I have to leave,” Gus says with such a straight face that it takes Johnny a minute to realize his mouth is gaping open like a fish.

But he gets his own back: when Gus takes his last bite, Johnny says, “but what about _me_?” and he's glad, really, when Gus cracks up the next second, because he was two seconds away from it himself.

And it is, and they do, and Gus maybe isn’t quite on time when he gets ready to leave; and Johnny thinks he just may never get up again, drowsing on the bed watching Gus get dressed through half-open eyes and running his tongue over his lips every so often to find another trace of Gus there.

“God,” Gus says, his voice rough and low, and Johnny opens his eyes to see Gus watching him. “Johnny…”

“Yeah?” Johnny says, smiling again because he can, stretching too, because he loves what he does to Gus, because he loves knowing what he does to Gus, and even more he loves knowing that that Gus likes it too.

“Touch yourself,” Gus whispers, “touch yourself while I get dressed.”

Johnny feels a shiver run up his body, his nipples tingling, and even though he just shot a load down Gus’ strong, tight throat about twenty minutes ago, he feels his stomach tense, his cock stir. “Like this?” he whispers, his own throat suddenly too tight; and then he’s pushing the sheet off with one hand, cupping his balls with the other. He hears Gus inhale sharply: the sound coils in Johnny’s belly and then his heart is pounding in his ears.


	5. mercredi: soirée et nuit

Gus refuses to think about what he’s started, or about being late, or about anything but Johnny, stretched out on the bed, long fingers stroking down to his groin, his spent cock resting on his thigh and those fingers, God, reaching down and lifting the soft heavy balls beneath–

He shrugs his shirt on without even thinking, and the next time Johnny opens his eyes Gus is standing over him, not able to look away for even a second: long long legs, tangled (oh _God_ yes) in the sheets, long fingers, long cock, getting longer (and harder) every second… and the best part (almost) is that Gus can still taste and smell Johnny from before.

“Yeah,” he whispers, “like that.”

“Like this?” Johnny’s smiling again, that enchanting open smile, his other hand moving easily to his cock, lifting and stroking it, and Gus can almost feel the weight in _his_ hand; but he resists temptation and just watches, watches Johnny pleasure himself… for him, for Gus.

And it’s almost like feeling Johnny jerk him: he’s had Johnny’s hand on his cock enough times (never enough) to bite his lip when Johnny rubs his thumb across the head, at the top; and he can almost feel the strength in those fingers when Johnny wraps his hand all the way around and pulls, slow, then fast, and just hard enough that when his foreskin slips back again the head of his cock is shiny.

And, really, voyeurism isn’t all it’s cracked up to be, not when he can lean in and taste, and touch, and feel those fingers up against his lips while Johnny feeds him his cock; and Gus leans in further, one knee on the bed, pushing up Johnny’s thighs like he’s going to fuck him again. And Johnny – Johnny just goes up, up and back, _so_ easy, still holding his cock with one hand, the other touching Gus’ face now.

Gus rocks them both, and Johnny echoes the rhythm, up and down and back and forth; and Gus sucks and swallows and sucks some more until Johnny’s hands have both fallen away to grip the sheets; and then, finally, Gus curls Johnny up higher, his tongue finding its way around Johnny’s high, tight balls, under and behind and down; and he licks, then spreads Johnny apart with his hands and licks again, licks and _kisses_ , like he’s kissing Johnny’s mouth, he’s kissing the inside of Johnny, or Johnny from the inside out.

And when he licks in, in and out, slow and sweet, just like Johnny, Johnny shakes all over, shakes all over and the sound he makes is just too breathless to be a scream. Gus licks harder, pushing in, and he feels Johnny flutter around his tongue; and he licks again, fast, and stabs his tongue _in_ , fast, faster, almost a flicker, trying to match Johnny’s rhythm. So close, so close, and Johnny’s voice is echoing in his head.

Gus’ own cock is aching, and he’s desperate to be buried inside Johnny (again!) and why the _hell_ did he get dressed?

Appointment.

Liars.

Yeah.

The hell with all of it: he does his best to unfasten his pants one-handed without letting go of Johnny, who’s moving restlessly against him, wrapping his leg behind Gus’ thigh, trying to pull him closer, words tumbling out of his mouth: “God, oh God, want you, want you–”

Too close and not enough time, and for the first time Gus understands delirium, an arid, heated flush overriding his common sense and his conscious will, his body taking over; he pushes his freed cock up against Johnny’s ass, not fucking, no, but fitting in so good and tight that he has to moan too, the base of his cock fitting just _there_ in the cleft of Johnny’s ass.

Then Johnny squirms, squirms down and pulls him closer, and Gus closes his eyes so he won’t come too soon. He loses his battle a few seconds later: Johnny’s got his hand wrapped around both their cocks, stripping hard, stroking fast, faster, until Gus is shaking from head to toe, shaking and moaning and _coming_ , spurt after spurt, all over Johnny’s hand and cock and stomach; and almost better than that is when Johnny goes over, still gripping both of them, and Gus feels Johnny’s cock leaping against his in Johnny’s firm, warm grip.

It’s no real surprise, he thinks afterwards, on his way to their café, that he’s later than they thought; but Johnny, dazed, drowsy, and delicious, had only grinned when Gus said maybe they should try for five instead of four. He hadn’t even opened his eyes, just nodded and rolled onto his side, bunching a pillow up under his neck.

And Gus can’t even say, truly, what the meeting was really about today: Ottawa pushing for some decisions, a date for a referendum, and the lawyers discussing their options.

Really, they could have just sent him a memo.

Noelle had, however, been (conspicuously) absent, so while Gus begrudged the time spent away from Johnny, he can’t complain about his mood.

And Johnny’s there, at an outside table, a bottle of beer beside him and a book in his hands. Gus slows: even at rest there’s a kind of magic about Johnny, and he wonders, half-fancifully, if Johnny’s his _roter Faden_ , entwined so deeply now inside Gus’ being that he’ll never get him out.

Well. Not that he _wants_ to.

In fact, he’d like to think he’s Johnny’s, the two of them entwined like a double helix or something equally impossible and magical.

And, equally fancifully, he imagines Johnny senses his presence: he looks up from the book, straight ahead, then turns his head to look directly at Gus, his eyes lighting up from inside before his mouth even begins to curve into a smile.

It takes everything Gus has not to pull Johnny to his feet and kiss him senseless; and he remembers walking to the restaurant with Lars and being thankful he couldn’t get near Johnny, since he didn’t seem to be able to keep his hands off him. He’d thought it would get easier with time but so far (four days!) it... hasn’t.

They decide to stay there for dinner and, somewhat to Gus’ surprise, they end up talking (and, of course, drinking) for several hours.

He really hasn’t met anyone with his own wide range of interests for a long time, Cornelius and Zeda notwithstanding (Johnny’s book, which he picks up at one point while Johnny’s in the men’s room, is a book on Canadian geology); and while their interests diverge at some points, they converge at others.

He realizes, settling the tab, that he’s not going to get out of this evening with his dignity intact.

He also realizes that he doesn’t really care, because he knows Johnny will take him as he is; in fact, _has_ taken him as he is.

Cornelius never agreed; but Gus has always thought dignity was overrated.

So when they leave, he takes Johnny around the corner, into another alley, and he knows, with a thrill deep inside his stomach snaking up his spine, that Johnny’s getting hard; but he takes Johnny by the wrists and leans him back against the wall so he can _see_ him.

“Yeah?” Johnny says softly, teasing him, and Gus has to swallow so he doesn’t drop his eyes.

“Why’d you come with me?” Gus says, just as softly.

Johnny, innocent, God, and so honest, doesn’t even try to pretend. He's silent for a few moments, apparently gathering his thoughts. Then: “You… looked at me,” he says, his voice barely a whisper. “No one ever... looked at me, not like that. And you were, uh… you were hard and, uh, I… I got hard, which was… which I didn’t expect, but it wasn’t…” He’s quiet again, for a long moment, looking down; and then he looks up again. “It… it felt right.”

And Johnny’s blushing, Gus knows: he can feel the heat from Johnny’s skin, close as he is. He lets go Johnny’s wrists, sliding his palms upwards to clasp Johnny’s hands; and he leans in closer and whispers, “Oh, I wanted you. Didn’t anyone ever want you before?”

Johnny’s shaking his head before Gus can even move his head: “No,” he’s whispering back, “not like… not like you. Like that. Like… this.”

And there’s really nothing else Gus can do but lean in, lean in and kiss Johnny, gently, Johnny’s lips soft beneath his, parting just enough; and Gus’ hands are suddenly on Johnny’s face, cradling his jaw; and he whispers, “You are so… dear.”

“So are you,” Johnny whispers back, his hands coming up to cover Gus’; and when Gus leans in again he feels Johnny’s fingers tighten on his; and then Johnny’s hands are on Gus’ face, fingers along Gus’ jaw, thumbs smoothing the skin on either side of Gus’ mouth; and Gus turns his head just enough to catch Johnny’s thumb between his lips.

Johnny’s indrawn breath is the only sound he hears before Johnny’s strong fingers are turning his head, tilting it so their lips can meet again, and again; and somewhere in there Gus finally finds the courage to confess what he’s been holding inside: “I think I’ve fallen in love with you,” and it’s cowardly, in a way, the words lost in Johnny’s mouth, but he’s never said them before, not like this, not _meaning_ them. And if _he’s_ blushing, now, well: all’s fair, isn’t it?

So when Johnny pulls back, puzzled, as if he didn’t quite hear, or doesn’t quite believe his ears, Gus dips his mittens in the water and takes up the oars again. “I’ve fallen in love with you.”

And if he thought Johnny was incandescent before it’s nothing compared to _now_ , to the unqualified joy shining from his eyes and the almost-shy grin stretching his sweet, sweet mouth; and of all the things Gus was waiting for Johnny to say, “Yeah, me too,” was not – really – one of them.

He wasn’t prepared, either, for Johnny to turn them, to push him against the wall, to take his mouth like it belongs to him – but it does; and if he thought Johnny wouldn’t claim it, well, it’s not the first (and it won’t be the last) time that he’s been wrong, because Johnny’s taking his mouth, his air, his _everything_ , his hands warm and strong on Gus’ jaw again, his fingers winding up into Gus’ hair, the hard edge of the book in Johnny’s pocket pressing against Gus’ stomach and the hard length of his cock pressing into Gus’ groin; and when a trio of teenagers passes the mouth of the alley and one shouts, “Get a room,” Gus can only be amazed when Johnny laughs, into his mouth and then into the night, and then shouts back, “Got one, thanks.”

Amazed and thankful and, yes, _ecstatic_ , because he already knows, he already knew, that Johnny _matches_ him and now – now he knows Johnny knows it too.


	6. Chapter 6

He can’t really explain it: it wasn’t the wind, after all, and he’s not sure if Gus is going to be angry or not that Johnny ducked into that alley with him on the spur of the moment, because it felt “right,” because he _could_.

But Gus asked, and Gus said that he wouldn’t ask if he didn’t want to know.

Gus is staring at him, still very serious, and Johnny’s heart sinks, just a little.

“Oh, I wanted you,” Gus says quietly. “Didn’t anyone ever want you before?”

The relief’s almost too huge to contain: “No,” Johnny says, “not like – not like you. Like that. Like… like _this_.”

And it was the right answer, not that there seem to be any wrong answers, not with Gus, because Gus leans in closer and Johnny closes his eyes because just kissing Gus is enough to fill him to overflowing and it’s almost impossible not to say that, so he lets the feelings spill out in the kiss instead, feeling the softness of Gus’ mouth like it’s the very first time but since it’s not he can concentrate, instead, on how it feels, how Gus feels, how strong his fingers are against Johnny’s jaw, how Gus smells and tastes and how Gus’ mouth moves against his, slow and gentle and sweet; and he almost doesn’t hear Gus say, “You are so… dear.”

“So are you,” he says hoarsely, almost reflexively, covering Gus’ hands with his own and squeezing, feeling Gus’ fingers tighten under his; and Gus is looking at him and Johnny can’t breathe and doesn’t want to: he reaches out to touch Gus’ chin, to hold Gus’ face the way Gus is holding his, feeling the soft skin at the side of his mouth with just a prick of stubble here and there. And because Gus has done it before he almost expects Gus to turn, turn and catch the side of Johnny’s thumb between his lips; and Gus does. Johnny feels another thrill inside him at that, mounting higher than the first one, the turn into the alley, not a rollercoaster even but just a ratchet higher; and he tries to share that thrill, turning Gus’ face toward him so he can kiss Gus again, tighter and deeper and longer than before.

He’s lost in it, lost in Gus, and he’s not sure he hears what he hears, if it’s his own pulse echoing in his ears or if it’s his imagination or if Gus actually said–

But Gus is blushing, his face so hot Johnny can feel it, and it could have been the other kidney after all, but Gus is blushing and Johnny doesn’t really need to hear the words repeated: there’s something inside him exploding, like coming, only _better_ , and the relief’s so fantastic that the words fly out: “Yeah, me too.”

Stupidest thing in the world, stupider than when he said it to Zoë, but–

_He_ said it to Zoë, and–

Gus said it to _him_ and–

He’s Gus’ and Gus is _his_ and he hardly knows what he’s doing until he feels Gus’ body hard against his where he’s pressing Gus against the rough brick wall, pushing his fingers up into Gus’ hair and cradling his head; and Gus doesn’t seem to mind because Gus is kissing him back just as hard, just as strong, just as _sweet_ , and he wonders if he could _tell_ Gus he’s sweet, if he could say that, if Gus would laugh, how Gus would look when he laughed, and he knows he could, and he knows Gus would laugh, and he knows exactly how Gus would look, one side of his mouth stretching up first, then the other, then those incredible lips parting–

In the background he hears someone laughing, hears, “Get a room!”

And maybe he’s just spent too much time coaching teenagers because he just laughs back at them, at them and himself, and yells that he’s got one, thanks, without even thinking of Gus; but Gus is _looking_ at him, and if Johnny thought Gus was beautiful before it’s nothing compared to _now_ , Gus watching him like he’s the – the winning lottery combination or he just scored the game-winning goal in OT in – in the _playoffs_ – or maybe all of it wrapped up together.

And he doesn’t know, or want to think, about what it means, either, he doesn’t want to think about Zoë, yesterday, tomorrow, he doesn’t want to think about anything but him and Gus right now.

“Johnny, I’m dying to suck you off in this alley,” Gus whispers, and his voice is as warm and amused as his face, “but it’s not very late or very private.”

It’s almost a physical jolt to Johnny’s stomach, his gut aching, and his cock rock hard, like it wasn’t already; and if he could get enough breath he’d tell Gus that it wouldn’t take all that long but he can’t even do _that_ right now because all he really wants to do is sink to his _own_ knees and pull Gus’ zipper down and wrap his mouth around that thick, hard cock and suck, and swallow, and suck again until Gus moans and makes that breathless sound that’s a grunt and _more_ , and then goes tense and tight under Johnny while his cock spills down Johnny’s throat.

“God,” Gus is whispering, staring at him, his eyes dark, “oh, God, Johnny, you’re… you’re so close, so close, I can _feel_ you…”

“I am, I am,” Johnny whispers back, hot and thrilled and clinging to the bare edge of control. “God, I – one taste, I could – just _one_ –”

Gus reaches up for Johnny’s hand, pulling it down, guiding it down between them, and Johnny gasps for breath when Gus runs their fingers up Johnny’s cock, pressing his own fingers between Johnny’s to mold the length of Johnny’s cock into their hands, into Johnny’s hand. “Don’t come, Johnny,” Gus is whispering. “Don’t come yet.”

“I won’t,” Johnny says, straining against their hands. “I won’t, I can’t, I–”

“I want you to fuck me,” Gus whispers up against Johnny’s throat, his fingers unsnapping Johnny’s jeans. “I don’t want you to come until you’re deep inside my ass and maybe we should just do it here–”

“God, Gus, _stop-_ ” Johnny gasps, but Gus’ fingers – Gus’ clever, strong fingers – are inside Johnny’s waistband, inside Johnny’s underwear, strong and calloused fingers on Johnny’s cock, and it’s– “ _fuck_ , too late, oh God–”

Quicker than thought Gus has Johnny backed against the other side of the alley, in the shadow of the buildings, and he’s on his knees with just the head of Johnny’s cock in his mouth; and Johnny can only moan Gus’ name, and his gratitude, as Gus brings him home, sucking hard and swallowing while Johnny jerks against him, into him, over and over and, oh God yes, _over_.

“Jesus Christ,” Gus is saying against Johnny’s mouth, zipping and buttoning Johnny’s pants, “I can’t believe we made it back to the room the first night. Fucking _Christ_ , you’re hot.”

Johnny’s knees are weak and he’s grateful Gus is there, holding him up: all he can say, his voice shaky, is Gus’ name. A car slowing down as it drives by sends a shot of adrenaline through him, but it’s not the police, thank God: Gus is still wearing his fucking _collar_.

“ _Shit_ ,” he says unsteadily, “Gus, that was in _sane_ , you can’t – _we_ can’t–”

“I’m sorry,” Gus says against his ear, pulling Johnny away from the wall and wrapping his arm around Johnny’s back, a hand on his shoulder, “I truly am. I can’t keep my hands _off_ you.” He waits a moment, but Johnny still can’t get enough breath back to do anything remotely like _talk_ , and adds, “Or my _mouth_ ,” and since Johnny was thinking it, and would have said it if he could have, he can’t do anything but laugh.

Because, after all, thirty seconds later it would’ve been _him_ on his knees and Gus’ cock down _his_ throat.

“Me either,” he says, taking another breath. “It would’ve been me, I mean, a few seconds later,” and he rubs the heel of his hand down the front of Gus’ pants and Gus catches his breath and then gasps. “Still could,” Johnny whispers, his mouth suddenly watering, pulling Gus around and pushing him against the wall. “Just…”

What’s happened to him, who _is_ he, that he’d let someone – that he’d _offer_ to–

And it doesn’t seem to _matter_ , none of it does, not even when Gus laughs, breathless and arching up into Johnny’s hand, saying, “I think – I think we’ve pressed our luck enough for one alley–”

If Zoë’d said that – God, if Johnny’d done something like this with Zoë–

He shakes his head, hard, his hand falling away from Gus’ pants; and Gus grabs him by the arm, suddenly serious, suddenly shaking him: “Johnny, I didn’t mean–”

“No,” Johnny says, too loud, maybe, but it’s _not_ Gus, it’s _him_ and he keeps forgetting who he _is_ , who he’s supposed to be, he keeps forgetting the rules and since Gus doesn’t seem to have any rules, or any wrong answers, or any tests or quizzes or any lines Johnny can (apparently) cross, Johnny’s the one who has to (try to) remember, who has to keep them both–

_I’ve fallen in love with you_.

He feels hands on his face: they’re his own, rubbing the sides of his face and scrubbing up into his hair. He doesn’t really know which way is up any more and lately he hasn’t really cared. And he’s not sure if he should, because the cup wasn’t even out, before, and now it’s half – at _least_ half – full.

And Gus said he doesn’t play games.

Gus is watching him, hands at his side, half his face in shadow but the light from the street is – somehow – reflected in his eyes. His hands are shoved in his pockets – and Johnny realizes it’s so Gus won’t touch him.

“You don’t play games,” Johnny says after looking at Gus for a minute; Gus just looks back at him for another long minute, then nods.

“Not with you, no.”

“What’s that _mean_?” Johnny says, his throat aching: Gus said that before, and he remembers, now, that he said it just that way. “You do play games with – with other people? You lie if you – if you need to? You’d play games with me if I – if I wasn’t – if we weren’t – if I was someone else?”

There’s another long silence and Johnny’s shaking inside, outside too, maybe, but he hopes Gus can’t see it: he’s still standing in the shadow by the wall.

“Yeah,” Gus says finally, looking Johnny in the eye, then looking down. “If you weren’t you, if I didn’t… trust you to be who you are. Yeah. All bets would be off. I’m not a saint, Johnny. I might have some compunction about lying to a liar, but I’ll do it anyway.”

And Johnny waits, but there’s no more: no excuses, no explanations, no apologies.

Not that those would have done much good if he’d gotten them in the first place.

Which…

…which is maybe why Gus doesn’t bother.

Because, really, what _could_ Louis say? What _would_ Zoë have said? The only thing they could have done that would have actually changed things would have been not to have done it at all, or to have _stopped_. But they didn’t, and has Johnny been waiting for an explanation, for an excuse, for an apology all this time?

“Did you lie to Noelle?” he asks, and Gus looks up sharply at him, then looks back down at the pavement, hunching his shoulders in his jacket.

“Did I? No.” He seems to think for a few seconds and then he looks up at Johnny again. “Would I – now? I don’t know. Possibly.”

About what? Johnny wants to ask, but he knows the answer and all he’s really looking for is some kind of… reassurance or something that Gus isn’t playing games. And Gus has already given him that, twice over now, and Johnny knows that Gus is not the kind of man who likes to repeat himself.

The wind picks up, a fresh breeze through the alley, and Johnny feels uprooted and empty and alone all at once: it’s nothing like the breeze off the lake at night, it’s not anything like the wind off the prairies in Winnipeg, even; this is foreign, inconstant, not right: there aren’t even leaves scudding along the ground, just a piece of old newspaper.

“Where are you, Johnny?” and Gus’ whisper is warm, as warm and as present as Gus himself is; and Johnny feels himself answer without even thinking.

“Gimli,” he says, and his vision blurs suddenly.

He sees Gus’ head move: he’s nodding. And then he hears Gus’ voice, quiet but somehow still making itself heard through the rushing in Johnny’s ears.

“On my island, sometimes the wind comes in off the sea at night in quiet whispers; and sometimes it comes in gusts, pushing clouds across the moon; and there’s a wind that pulls the fog in, and some say there’s a wind that pushes the fish out; and the fishermen from my grandfather’s time would tell of a breeze that was fair as a mermaid, a siren’s call that broke apart ships on invisible rocks and trapped the men who felt it; and they’d tell of gales that blew to Ireland and back, and of the ships lost in them.”

And it was those same winds that blew the Vikings to Iceland (and Greenland, and even Canada), Johnny wants to say, but he can’t find the words, fearful that, even now, Gus will laugh; those same winds that blew Henry Hudson across the Atlantic, and (he supposes) John Franklin, at least part of the time.

“And they never came home,” and he only realizes he’s said it out loud when he feels Gus’ hand on his shoulder, and he wonders how much more he said, but he’s too drained to feel more than mild panic.

“And some of us stayed,” Gus says, his lips close to Johnny’s ear, his body a solid warmth alongside Johnny. “Some of us died, and some of us stayed: ‘O brave new world, that has such people in’t.’”

“Some of us just stayed home,” Johnny whispers, blinking hard: he’s tired, so tired, and he didn’t know it until now.

“I don’t know why you think you stayed home,” and Gus’ voice is low and soft and sounds like the wind whispering in the grasses by the shore. “You’re halfway across the ocean, Johnny, and you’re longing to see that new world. You knew you might never see home again and you left anyway; their spirits are as strong in you as they were in your sister.”

“I never meant to go halfway around the world,” Johnny says, struggling for words. “I couldn’t have…”

“That’s the thing about the wind,” and Gus’ lips are soft and warm on Johnny’s ear. “It takes you where you need to go.”

“To the bottom of the sea?”

“Sometimes to the bottom of the sea and sometimes halfway around the world; and sometimes no further than the rocks just outside the harbour.”

“Home again…”

“Like so many things, it can depend on your definition.”

“You know, though, don’t you,” Johnny says, and it’s not at all a question.

“Yeah,” Gus says, and Johnny feels Gus’ thumb on the side of his neck. “I know: home is my grandfather’s library, the smell of the books there, the crackle of the fire; home is an old staircase under an oriel window at university: I can still see the motes of dust in the sunshine and feel the wood of the railing under my head, warm and worn smooth and old. And it’s a tiny pink house in an olive wood on an island in the Aegean where even the smells were sun washed and the wine stung the back of my throat; and it’s a graveyard on my island, an old graveyard with new graves and an unsurpassed peace: I live at one edge of it, with the ocean on the other side of me.”

“You said life came from the ocean,” Johnny whispers, almost senseless in the spell Gus has woven. “Life and death…”

“Life and death and death and life… the cat’s pregnant and Bunsy tells me it comes of hunting in the graveyard.”

Johnny’s not sure if Gus means for him to laugh but he can’t help it; and Gus chuckles too, his hand slipping comfortably around the back of Johnny’s neck. “I was actually blamed for feeding her in the graveyard,” he continues, “and there’s not much point in arguing; but I wonder where she’ll have the kittens. If she has them there, Bunsy may take that as a sign of the Apocalypse.”

And it’s not a police car after all but a policeman, shining his flashlight down the alley, and Johnny can only hope it’s too dark for the heat on his cheeks to show. “Anything wrong, gentlemen?” he says genially.

And it shouldn’t surprise Johnny that Gus responds equally genially: “Not at all, sir, thanks for asking.”

Of course it’s the collar, or maybe it’s not: the cop falls back a step, probably just from the authority in Gus’ voice; and when he sees the collar, a half second later, he _apologises_ , and it’s all Johnny can do not to laugh: if only he _knew_.

Now the cop’s offering them a _ride_ and Gus is thanking him gravely and Johnny’s wishing that the earth really would open up and swallow him because he’s not going to be able to keep from laughing, he’s really not; and he bites the inside of his lip so hard he thinks he tastes blood.

Gus is talking about cinemas in the neighbourhood and the cop’s giving him directions; and Johnny’s surprised that he’s not offering to call and get the times for the films.

If it had been just Johnny, or Johnny and… whoever, Johnny’d have made up a story that would have sounded lame, and lamer further on; it probably would have taken Auntie Auntie or Sigrid to get him out of it, not that anyone really ever bothered to question Sigrid, maybe because she wouldn’t bother to answer or maybe just because that’s how she was.

“Feeling better now, Johnny?” Gus is asking and Johnny retains enough sense to nod, nod and smile at the cop, who’s looking solicitous and would never believe that Gus was on his _knees_ a few minutes ago sucking Johnny off, never in a million _years_.

Gus keeps a hand on Johnny’s arm; when they’re out of earshot of the policeman, he says quietly, as if they were never interrupted, “And what about your homes, Johnny?”

“Just the one,” Johnny says after a few moments. “Just, uh, Gimli. The house… our – my house. It was – my dad built it; it’s on the lake. It’ll be – I’ll give it to Eric, leave it to Eric.”

“Did you grow up there?” Gus asks quietly. “You and Sigrid?”

“Yeah,” Johnny says, with a sigh that surprises him. “Gus, I’m–”

“Oh, _no_ , no, no, no,” Gus says, just as quietly as before but so forcefully Johnny stops and stares at him; and Gus stops, too, and looks at him steadily. “There’s nothing to apologise for, Johnny; you’re alone and I know that and if anyone’s at fault it’s me; but I’m not actually going to apologise for any of it, including falling in love with you, and I truly hope you’re not going to apologise for any of it either.”

“I don’t know what you _mean_ ,” Johnny says finally, and he can be proud, can’t he, that his voice isn’t actually breaking; and he really doesn’t: he’s never, and always, alone, and isn’t everyone?

  
“Tell me about your parents,” Gus says, taking Johnny’s arm so Johnny has to start walking with him again. “You don’t talk about them.”


	7. Chapter 7

Bewildered doesn’t come close, this time, not even remotely: he can feel the confusion rolling off Johnny in waves: the confusion, yes, and the sadness.

How many people have, really, told Johnny they loved him? And (at that) meant it?

And he ought to have known, oh, he damn well _should_ have known, that someone like Johnny would have fallen in love with… well, he won’t say “anyone” because he doesn’t sell himself quite that short; but he’s thankful now that he realised it, and _said_ it, before Johnny himself did, because it would be almost impossible not to say, “Yeah, me too,” if Johnny’d said it to him, whether he did or not.

But perhaps that’s all of a piece, because he certainly never worried about that with Noelle.

What he wants to say to Johnny isn’t so much “love” as “forever” and – given Johnny’s reaction to what’s, when all’s said and done, the _simple_ part of the equation – that’s a completely different (and apparently much larger) kettle of fish.

Love and forever and, yes, “home,” and it’s all so simple for Gus.

It’s more than a stretch to realize it’s not quite that simple (or simple at all, come to that) for Johnny.

“There’s not much to talk about,” Johnny says finally, still sounding uncertain and confused. “Our mother died when we were young, and we hardly remembered her. It was cancer, and they thought it was something else until it was too late. Dad died the winter Sigrid left – ice fishing. They, uh, they never found him. She – I mean, Sigrid was gone, so Auntie Auntie took me in until I left for, uh, for Regina.”

It’s no wonder Johnny takes life as it comes: Gus is (almost) dumbfounded.

And triply glad he found the courage, somewhere, to say to Johnny what needed saying before this revelation.

“I should have gone earlier,” Johnny’s saying quietly, “but we knew Sigrid was leaving and it didn’t really matter one way or the other whether I went at 16 or 17 – hell, I was no Gretzky and no one thought I was.”

And he’s laughing, somehow, in spite of it all; and Gus has to swallow a hard lump in his throat.

“What about – what about you?” and Johnny’s looking at him in the gathering darkness as if it’s _over_ , as if that’s all that ever needs to be said on the subject, as if Gus doesn’t have a thousand (and two) questions. “You don’t talk about your parents, either, just your, uh, your grandparents.”

Did you ever, Gus wants to ask, have a single  _solitary_ thing in your life that wasn’t taken away before its time? Even Eric, gone adventuring with his ‘real’ father, even Eric’s not here, and he’s all Johnny’s had to keep going on with these past few years.

And yet here’s Johnny, still, more concerned that Eric might know about Zoë, or about the baby that never got a chance at life, than about himself; more concerned about Gus’ evident lack of parents than, apparently, his own; more concerned about Sigrid’s son than the loss of his own twin, which has to feel, Gus imagines, like losing an arm or a leg or some equally essential part of you; and there’s Zoë, fucking Johnny’s best friend, taking away even _that_.

He’s furious in a way he hasn’t been in years, in a way he hasn’t been since the full import of Dexter’s death broke over him: the waste, the uselessness, the comprehensive, treacherous reality that they were all pawns in Ottawa’s games and none of the people involved, not one of the _people_ involved ever really _mattered_.

He answers Johnny, his voice too tight, and Johnny probably thinks that it’s because he doesn’t want to talk about his own parents. And that’s true, but not for the reasons Johnny will assume; and once again, as with Johnny’s nightmare, Gus truly doesn’t know where to begin. “My parents were lost in a boating accident when I was six.” He holds up a hand just as Johnny opens his mouth, effectively stopping them both in their tracks and stopping Johnny’s expressions of sympathy as well. “I know you’re sorry; so was I.”

Johnny’s watching him, grave and unsure; and they’re too close to the hotel now and not close enough, and there are too many people on the street. “This isn’t the time or the place to say this but I’m going to say it anyway: I don’t feel sorry for you, Johnny, but God knows I want to strew your path with roses after all; you’re the last person on earth who needs sweeping off his feet but I want to; and I’m the last person on earth who’d be any good at it because I don’t have a noble steed, or a ratty old donkey, or even a set of mismatched rusty armor.”

Johnny, watching him carefully, swallows so hard Gus can almost feel the lump in his own throat. “You don’t… you don’t really need any of that,” and he’s trying to smile but his eyes are bright, overbright, and it was definitely _not_ the right time to say it but it was, after all, the right thing to say. “I mean –”

“I know,” Gus says, because he does, and because he knows if he makes Johnny say anything more the tears will spill over and out. And they probably should – he probably has years, not to say decades, stored up inside – but not here, not now.


	8. Chapter 8

And it’s just as well that Gus interrupts him because between the roaring in his ears and the lump in his throat threatening to dissolve or, worse, make him _sick_ , Johnny’s head is spinning; and when Gus clears his own throat and then suggests hitting the exercise room, all Johnny can do is nod.

He’s even a little surprised when, up in the room changing, Gus does nothing more than kiss him, once, his hands on Johnny’s face and his lips soft and warm and gone almost before Johnny has a chance to respond. And he wishes that Gus would have given him that chance because there, at least, Johnny’s on solid ground: the sex is (astonishingly and still) the easy part. 

Up to now the sex has always been the complicated part: loving Zoë was easy, wanting her was even easy, but moving out to the caboose was just another complication, not even the first one, and maybe (looking back) not even the worst one.

Or that could be what this all means, that everything with Gus is so uncomplicated: if it’s this easy, is it really true? Is it worth having? Does suffering for Zoë make it, her, _them_ , matter more, somehow? Or is life and love (and hockey) truly as simple as Gus said it was?

He can’t _think_ any more, and he doesn’t _want_ to, and the weight room’s a welcome relief; so welcome, in fact, that he’s surprised to blink up and see Gus, a towel around his neck, looking down at him with a mixture of irritation and concern that reminds him of Auntie Auntie.

“Professional athletes,” Gus says, a frown still between his eyebrows. “Are you trying to exhaust yourself? Because I think you’ve managed to and I can’t keep up in any case.”

Johnny can only smile: he feels weightless and even free, in a way, the ache in his muscles an honest and weary ache, an earned ache; and although Gus looks momentarily confused, he smiles back. 

“I forgot where I was for a while,” Johnny says with perfect truth, taking Gus’ hand and pulling himself up, taking the water, too, that Gus hands him. “This was a great idea. Thanks.”

“I don’t much like being here,” Gus says. “It’s not that I have a routine but I’m enough a creature of habit I don’t like it disrupted, and I’m a lot more active at home than here in an hotel. I imagine it’s much the same for you.”

“Yeah, exactly,” Johnny says, taking the towel from Gus and slinging it around his neck while Gus holds the door for them: here, too (and as usual), Gus understands without being told, so Johnny’s not surprised as much as grateful. “I never think I’m on the ice that much until I’m not. One reason not to stop coaching, I guess.”

In the elevator, Gus is still frowning: “I thought you’d decided to stop coaching.”

“Yeah, for now,” Johnny says, reaching up to smooth away the lines between Gus’ eyebrows. “I mean, you know, long-term. Or whatever.”

And Gus relaxes under his touch, his brow and even his mouth, and Johnny can’t resist touching Gus’ lips, too. “Thanks,” he says again. “I really…”

“I should have thought of it sooner,” and Gus’ fingers are on Johnny’s chin and then his neck, spreading wide and spanning the length.

“You were right,” Johnny says, whispers, really, moving in closer, Gus’ eyes dark and wide and filling Johnny from the inside out. “About the wind. I don’t – I don’t really know who I am right now, but it doesn’t matter. I’m who I need to be, and there’s no point in – in worrying about it.”

“The wind…” Gus says, and Johnny can’t tell if he’s asking a question or not, but he answers anyway.

“You said it takes you where you need to go.”

Gus’ eyes are alight: Johnny doesn’t think he’s ever seen anything so beautiful. “And that’s here.”

“Yeah.”

“Speaking for myself, I couldn’t be more delighted,” and Gus leans in to kiss him just as the elevator dings, slowing to a stop. 

And Johnny, the new Johnny, or maybe it’s the old Johnny after all, doesn’t let Gus pull away: he pulls Gus closer, and closer still, for a full, warm kiss that stretches until Gus has to put his hand out to stop the door sliding closed; and Johnny laughs against Gus’ lips, and Gus laughs too, and Johnny’s pretty sure he’ll never get tired of hearing that ever. 

Even ‘ever’ is sounding a lot less scary than it did a week ago. 

On the way to the room, Gus slides his hand down from Johnny’s elbow to Johnny’s hand, and Johnny squeezes Gus’ hand back and grins sideways at him; and Gus apparently throws caution to the wind – where it belongs, Johnny thinks, half hysterically and half ecstatically – and backs Johnny against the wall, narrowly avoiding a sconce.

“I’m glad you nixed the armor,” Gus whispers up against his mouth. “I think it would be more trouble than it’s worth –”

“-and it would really get in the way,” Johnny whispers back, sliding his hands up under Gus’ shirt, Gus’ skin smooth and even soft, the muscles rippling hard underneath.

“I love the way your mind works,” Gus murmurs in his ear. 

And Johnny breathes in: Gus smells _good_ ; and he tips his head back because Gus’ tongue feels _better_ ; and it’s kind of funny that they can’t ever seem to make it to the room, or the bedroom.

“I love the way your everything works,” he says, or thinks he says: he must have said it because Gus laughs into the hollow of Johnny’s shoulder and Johnny can’t resist burying his hands in Gus’ hair and pulling him closer, and he lets himself shudder against Gus, lets Gus feel Johnny stretched out and up close all against him. Johnny’s wearing old sweats with hacked-off sleeves and a stretched out collar; Gus is wearing one of those old-man shirts and a pair of running shorts, and Johnny wonders which feels better, Gus up against him or him up against Gus.

The elevator dings again and there’s the sound of voices in the hall. Johnny’s luck holds: the voices fade, going in the opposite direction.

“Come on,” he whispers, turning Gus’ head so his lips can find Gus’ ear. “I’ve got a surprise for you.”

He can tell Gus doesn’t believe him, and that’s okay: it’s not much of a surprise but it suddenly feels like the best idea he’s had in… well, in the past five minutes. 

“No,” he says, holding a hand up when Gus pushes the door closed behind them. “It really is. Go lie down and close your eyes. No peeking.” 

“Cats have nothing on me when it comes to curiosity,” Gus murmurs in Johnny’s ear, his lips warm and soft along Johnny’s cheekbone. “But I’ll try.” 

Johnny tries not to make any noise: he’s sure Gus is straining for the slightest sound. The refrigerator is probably a dead giveaway, but there’s a spoon in the dish drainer from earlier. 

When he looks around the doorway, he sees Gus’ eyes shut quickly, and he has to laugh. Gus laughs too, obediently keeping his eyes closed, but Johnny keeps his hands behind his back just in case. 

He’s just reached the bed when he sees Gus’ eyelids flicker. “No peeking,” he says, even though he just wants to laugh; and Gus grins. 

“Your hands are behind your back anyway,” he says, opening one eye.

“It’s a _surprise_ ,” Johnny says again, trying to hold back his laughter. “Do I have to blindfold you?”


	9. Chapter 9

Gus isn’t sure whether he gasps or chokes: his cock, already hardening, seems to go rigid in an instant.

Johnny’s eyes grow larger than before, and Gus didn’t honestly think that was possible. He knows his own throat is suddenly dry; he imagines Johnny’s is too.

“I… I don’t think I have…” The words seem to be dragged out of Johnny by main force, but Johnny’s not scared or reluctant, and somehow his courage gives Gus courage to go on.

“A tie… your tie.”

Oh, and this is ridiculous, and any second now Johnny is going to burst out laughing at Gus, or flee into the night, or quietly and politely call a taxi or perhaps even an ambulance; but Johnny does none of these things, just leans down by the bed, out of Gus’ line of sight, and then crosses the room to his bag.

Gus has to close his eyes, close his eyes and swallow hard, his thoughts chaotic: _he_ was the one, after all, and he’d agreed, just as Johnny had, and –

The next thing he knows Johnny’s straddling him, pulling his undershirt off and leaning in to kiss him; and then there’s silk in Johnny’s hands, and silk across Gus’ eyes, and around his head, and the world goes dark red and black.

“There,” Johnny says, and Gus is disoriented: his voice sounds far away but Johnny’s still above him. “No peeking.”

The satisfaction in his voice is enough to make Gus laugh, and it keeps the panic down when Johnny climbs off him, when Gus is alone, chills prickling up the back of his neck, on the unmoving bed. He can still hear Johnny: he can hear Johnny breathing, he can hear the scrape of an unidentifiable sound; and he can feel the warmth from Johnny’s body and he turns his own body toward Johnny, reaching for him, almost unconsciously trying to push the blindfold up by rubbing it against his arm.

Another scrape, and then a bounce, and Johnny’s straddling him again. When Gus feels silk around his wrists, too, he has to fight to stay still, to stay calm: never, he’s _never_ put himself out like this, in someone’s power like this; and he has to conjure up Johnny’s face, Johnny’s smile, to keep from screaming out loud, screaming and thrashing and scaring the hell out of Johnny and his own self.

The knots are strong and almost too tight; then Gus remembers that Johnny’s a sailor, too, for all that he’s never known the sea, and that calms him until Johnny leaves again, Gus’ body cold where Johnny’s warmth just was.

Then Johnny’s hands are on Gus’ neck and Gus almost flinches at the unexpectedness of the touch; but he can smell Johnny now, feel Johnny’s breath on his face, Johnny’s life –

“You want to peek?” Johnny’s whispering, and there’s no judgment in his voice, only kindness, kindness and something more: understanding? Or, perhaps, wisdom?

Because “wisdom” is one of Johnny’s defining characteristics, Gus knows that now: if Johnny was a Buddhist, he’d be so close to nirvana, Gus thinks, that it would only take a few more steps, a few more brushes of the grass broom, to achieve it.

So Gus relaxes into Johnny’s touch, under Johnny’s touch: this isn’t the wind, but perhaps this, too, is where Gus needs to go… or just be.

“No peeking,” he whispers against Johnny’s lips.

“Good,” and he’s not sure if Johnny says it or Gus only imagines it, but he’s not imagining the benison, Johnny’s hand on his brow for a brief moment.

Another dip of the mattress and then a scuffle of sound: the phone being pushed back, away from the edge of the nightstand.

“You’re thinking too hard,” Johnny whispers, his warmth suddenly above Gus again, tantalizingly close and Gus can’t reach for it, can’t hold him, can’t – “It’s a surprise.”

Surprise, yes, that would be the word; and he wonders which tie Johnny used to lash his wrists to the bed, the yellow paisley or the blue striped one?

There are hands at his hips: Johnny’s pulling his shorts off, gently freeing his erection, and Gus thrusts up, urgent and bare, into nothing.

The bed dips again, on the other side of him this time, and then Johnny’s hand is skimming down Gus’ torso, then back up his rib cage, too firm (thank God) to tickle. And there’s a finger on his nipple, pressing down; and the next thing he knows is cold, cold cold cold, but it’s a spreading, melting sort of cold, not an ice cube sort of cold; and then Johnny’s warm lips and tongue are there and Gus arches up into Johnny’s mouth with a (surprisingly) loud moan.

“That’s it,” Johnny says, his voice thick, even throaty. “Oh, God… Gus…”

And then his other nipple is chilled cold, then warmed with Johnny’s mouth and tongue; and then Johnny’s mouth is on his, sweet and cool.

“Open,” Johnny whispers, and Gus is nearly senseless, almost hypnotized, cold melting into sweet warmth on his tongue not nearly enough to shock him back into himself.

Then Johnny’s gone again and Gus’ stomach tightens with anticipation. There’s cold at the top of his stomach, where his ribcage rises up; and then there’s cold in his navel, and he saw that coming, God, yes, because it feels so good when Johnny’s tongue warms him _there_.

“Butter pecan,” Johnny’s whispering, astride Gus now, rocking atop him as if he’s not even aware he’s doing it; and Gus closes his eyes tighter and imagines Johnny’s face, because he knows that Johnny probably _isn’t_ aware he’s doing it, doesn’t seem to be aware of the sensuality that emanates from him even at rest, let alone –

And then the words penetrate, and the flavour too, as Johnny slides a cold metal spoon into his mouth, as gently as before, and something inside Gus lets go, lets go and explodes into a Chinese New Year: Johnny remembered, remembered casual, tossed-off words, remembered and planned and _bought_ …

And it’s all Gus can do suddenly to choke back tears: he has no idea where they came from and they’re unwelcome at the best of times, but, again, Johnny saves him with what feels like a near-scoop in the hollow of Gus’ belly, sliding down his abdomen, followed by Johnny’s tongue, then his lips, warm and soft.

“More,” Johnny says, not really a question, but Gus nods anyway; and Johnny feeds him with surety, not too much or too little, enough to delight him further yet leave him wanting more.

“It’s as good as I thought,” and Johnny’s stretched out atop him now, his breath warm on Gus’ cheek. “You and ice cream…” Before Gus can draw breath to respond, Johnny’s tongue, cooler than Gus’ overheated skin, is on Gus’ collarbone, licking his neck as if Gus is made of ice cream; and Johnny’s cock, hot and hard, is riding alongside Gus’; and it’s all too much and still not enough because he can’t grab Johnny, he can’t pull him closer, he can’t do anything but push, push up against Johnny and moan again, seeking (blindly, of course) Johnny’s mouth on his.

“God, not – not enough,” Johnny’s whispering, his hands suddenly on Gus’ hips, his fingers cold but strong, holding them together, close, closer, giving Gus something to buck up against, hard, harder. “I want – yeah, oh God –”

“ _Fuck_ me, just _fuck_ me,” Gus says, too loudly, his eyes hot and his hands clenched tight around the silk holding them – he wants to be taken, _taken_ and–

–and there’s a hand behind his knee, strong and sure, pushing him onto his side, pulling his leg up, twisting him just enough, and there’s a finger, no, a thumb, pressing up and in, and Gus has a crazy half second of wondering if it’s lube or ice cream before there’s more pressure there, hot and slick, and Johnny’s suddenly draped over him, pushing into him just as hard and fast as Gus wanted, and how did he _know_?

“Deep,” he chokes out, “ _hard_ ,” and Johnny’s fucking Gus like he was born to it – and he was, he _must_ have been – deep and hard and Gus isn’t going to last even another minute –

Johnny’s hand is on his cock, then, slick and cool and stroking in perfect time, hard and then harder. It’s the grunt that finally sends Gus over, the grunt Johnny makes when he pushes in again, the feel of Johnny pushing up and against and _into_ him and Gus can’t do anything but _take_ it, twisted and tied and coming apart at the seams, take it and give it back, his ass clenching around Johnny’s cock, spasm upon spasm, hard and strong and so fucking _big_ inside him, filling him _full_ –

He comes back to himself when he feels Johnny’s fingers on the knot at his wrists, loosening it from the bed so Gus can roll all the way over to his stomach, Johnny just now slipping out; and then Johnny’s freed his wrists too and slid his arms around Gus, kissing the back of his neck and murmuring against his skin, quiet happy sounds, sated sounds, almost boneless atop him.

But Gus is energized, energized and almost wild, even though he can hardly lift his hand to push up the blindfold: his body won’t obey his commands but his brain is spinning off into space, encompassing secrets the universe didn’t know it was keeping, wanting never to stop, to slow down, to sleep again. It’s a quiet kind of ecstasy, by necessity, since he can’t get breath enough to give voice to anything more than a whisper of Johnny’s given – Christian! – name; but he doesn’t need it to be loud, he doesn’t need it to be anything more than it _is_ , here and now, it and Johnny, warm and heavy and (also) _here_.

He wakes once, briefly: Johnny’s rolled them both to one side, pulling covers over them, and under those covers, in the dark warm cave with Johnny, he tells Johnny, again, and Johnny murmurs the words back against the skin of Gus’ throat, one hand tangled in Gus’ hair, and he lets himself go back to sleep.

The next time he wakes the sky beyond the curtains is washed yellow: he’s slept past dawn, and so has Johnny, behind him, both arms wrapped around Gus, his breath warm and cool by turns on the back of Gus’ neck.

And Gus doesn’t have anywhere else to be, so he lets himself drift in and out of sleep until Johnny’s arms tighten, until his breathing changes, until (not so suddenly) Johnny’s even closer against him than before, mouthing words against Gus’ shoulder, a hand spread flat on Gus’ belly.

A half hour and three kinds of sticky later Gus is draped over Johnny, this time, Johnny on his back, his eyes closed, his hands in Gus’ hair again; and when Gus feels himself drifting back to sleep he lets himself: he never understood what “luxuriate” meant, not until now; and he doesn’t want to think about anything or anyone outside this hotel, this room, this bed, not now, not ever, not until he has to.

When he wakes again, it’s to the feel of Johnny’s fingers in his hair, oddly rhythmic. The sky’s still bright but the sun is gone: it’s past noon, then.

Past noon and he’s starving: Johnny must be too.

But he puts off getting up, or even moving: Johnny’s hands are soothing and Johnny’s legs are still tangled with his.

When Johnny makes a sound that’s too close to a giggle to be called anything else, really, Gus laughs with him, and Johnny pulls him close, lifting the hair off his neck and kissing him behind one ear.

“Sigrid could never braid her own hair,” Johnny says, his voice warm and low and amused. “I learned to do it, watching Auntie Auntie, and I used to do it for her, if she wanted – she liked to have it braided when her hair was wet, in a dozen braids, and she’d sleep on it so it would stick out and not be, you know, straight, the next day. She’d have loved your hair… I love it.”

“Mine used to be longer,” Gus says past the lump in his throat.

“She chopped all hers off when she was eleven. Chris Olausson got gum in it and Auntie Auntie was away. We didn’t know what else to do – we didn’t know about peanut butter. So she just… chopped it off.”

“I wasn’t quite that dramatic,” Gus says, swallowing again, swallowing hard. “According to Zeda it’s still far too long.”

“Don’t cut it,” Johnny whispers, and his fingers are combing through it again. Gus realizes – consciously, because he knew it before, as soon as Johnny said it – that Johnny’d put braids in it; and he stops Johnny from combing them all out by rolling over and pinning Johnny to the bed beneath him.

“I have no intention of cutting it,” he says, close up against Johnny’s mouth. “Just keep Chris Olausson away from it.”

“Maybe we can distract him with the sheep,” Johnny says back, and it cuts Gus to the heart that Johnny can be so full of joy (mirth, even) right along with recounting his lost childhood – his lost happiness.

How Johnny carries that happiness in him still is a mystery to Gus – it’s almost a sacred mystery – and Gus is willing, now, to verbalise (at least to himself) that it’s a mystery he’d like to have a lifetime to solve.

A lifetime.

His bishop hadn’t asked him about that; hadn’t asked him much, really, at all; but they’ve known each other a good long time, since that second year at Cambridge, so Gus hadn’t been surprised by that lack of curiosity. Thom is smart enough, and knows Gus well enough, to know that the news, delivered somewhat baldly, was enough in and of itself.

Still, Gus thinks, perhaps he ought to call Thom back this afternoon and add that part: lifetime.

Zeda, on the other hand, probably already knows; and Bunsy had (evidently) figured it out as soon as Gus called him, if not sooner.

After they shower, and eat – room service delivered with more alacrity than accuracy, this time around, not that Gus is complaining – he takes Johnny back to bed for more reasons than the obvious; and he can’t really explain (nor would he try) the thrill he feels, later, at the touch of Johnny’s fingers in his hair again, Johnny humming something softly almost under his breath.

And when Gus gets ready to leave for Noelle’s dinner, he reaches up to the back of his neck: there’s a small, tight braid there still, just the ends unraveling; and he touches it carefully, almost like a talisman.

In the other room Johnny’s poring over his maps again, spread out on the table.

“I’ll try to keep it an early night,” Gus says, leaning over too and pulling Johnny against him. He’s really almost stopped comparing them (honest), but for all that he’s as tall as Gus, and, in a way, longer, Johnny fits against him, _with_ him, far better than Noelle ever did.

Or perhaps she just never wanted to: Johnny, on the other hand, seems to welcome being half of a whole, and Gus is hoping – with an earnestness he hasn’t felt in almost twenty years – that Johnny _will_ welcome it, when it comes down to it.

“It’s okay,” Johnny’s saying. “I’ll call Auntie Auntie and Lars. Maybe work out again. I won’t be bored.” He pauses and Gus hardly has time to catch his breath before Johnny stuns him with an open, amazing smile. “Just lonely.”

_Well_.

It’s pretty clear that when Johnny decides ‘here’ is where he’s supposed to be, he doesn’t test the waters, he jumps with both feet.

It takes everything Gus has, and then some, to pull himself away, pull back, stumble – yes, actually stumble – to the door: that smile, on Johnny, is more lethal than an axe handle and twice as stunning.

Gus – walking to dinner, eschewing (again) a taxi – wonders if this Johnny was what (who) Zoë couldn’t handle.

He knows he can handle it, that he welcomes it, that he is, in fact, _reveling_ in it, in this Johnny. This was what he’d wanted with Jack, all those years ago, and perhaps what he’s wanted (he supposes) ever since, although he certainly never thought he was pining: he’s not the type.

  
Noelle might have been able to handle this – him; but he didn’t want her to, and he didn’t want to have to ask her for it, didn’t want – _ever_ – to have to beg for it; and is he just damned lucky or _is_ there a God, one who _does_ take an interest, that here it is, what Gus wants, what Gus won’t admit he needs, what Augustus Knickel, contrary Dutchman that he is, will never ask for, being offered to him on that aforementioned silver platter by one Johannes Jóhannsson?


End file.
